


The Rainbow Affair

by LeetheT



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:37:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Rainbow Affair

_Many thanks to Mara, my beta noir!_

 

Illya Kuryakin stared through the rain-streaked windows at the narrow cobbled street. Despite the rain, quite a few people — locals surely, for Brugge saw few tourists this time of year — strode in businesslike manner along the puddled pavements.

The cafe itself was dark and overwarm after the chill of the fall storm through which they’d trudged from their hotel on Wulfhagestraat.

Brugge was a pretty city, Illya thought, even in this grey downpour. Pretty but professionally uninteresting, or so he would have thought. So he would have preferred, just now, just for a change. A few days of relative safety and peace would have been ...

He sighed, sipped his tea and continued to stare blankly out the window, waiting for Napoleon to return from his mysterious errand, wondering if it wasn’t for the best that he had no time right now to think.

~*~*~

Napoleon Solo stopped in the doorway, spotting his partner instantly even in the crowded cafe. No need to employ the sixth sense they shared, for Illya had taken the classic spy position: within reach of the door, back to a wall, where he could see everything.

Illya set his teacup down as Napoleon emerged from the quietly cheery crowd.

“ _Nice om u te zien. Kan ik u een kop van koffie kopen_? (Nice to see you. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?)”

“Smart alec,” Napoleon muttered fondly as he sat down.

“ _Het is niet mijn fout Ik besteedde aandacht in school_ (It’s not my fault I paid attention in school),” Illya went on.

“ _Dat Ik_ (So did I),” Napoleon said.

“ _Aan de lessen_ (To the lessons).”

“Ah.” Napoleon beckoned the waitress.

“ _Est-ce que tu va m’expliquer pourquoi nous sommes a Bruges ce soir mouille et sombre,_ ” Illya asked then, in French so Napoleon would have less trouble, “ _ou est-ce qu-il faut deviner?_ (Do you intend to tell me why we’re in Brugge on this damp and dismal afternoon, or am I supposed to guess?)”

“ _Besoin de savoir, mon ami_ (Need to know, my friend),” Napoleon admonished as the waitress approached. He switched to Dutch — faltered — and resorted to English in asking for coffee and croissant. Napoleon spoke several languages passably — it was almost a requirement for an UNCLE agent — but he didn’t have his partner’s ability to switch effortlessly between them.

Illya forebore to make fun of Napoleon’s momentary linguistic tangle, but said, in English:

“So why am I here, if I’m to be kept in the dark?”

Napoleon smiled. “Company.”

Illya snorted softly. “You would have to search diligently to find less congenial company than me, as you well know. Especially when I’ve been kept in the dark about a mission for 24 hours.” He lifted his teacup three inches, lowered it. “Especially after the last mission, for the entirety of which I was in the dark.”

The statement sobered Napoleon. Though he was well aware — all too well aware — of what Illya had suffered, to hear that rare confession from his partner shook him.

He reached across the tiny table, grasping his partner’s forearm. “You all right?”

He knew what the answer would be — yes — what the truth was — no — and that the question was, practically, pointless. Illya would do the job, however he felt. But on another level he had to say the words. He cared, and it mattered to Illya that he cared.

“I’m fine. Just ... tired.”

 _Tired_. Napoleon’s heart flinched.  Illya would say he was fine if he were at death’s door; that word spoke volumes about how Madagascar had affected him.

Illya darted a glance at Napoleon’s hand, a smile just tickling the corners of his mouth. His eyes, though, remained wistful.

Napoleon knew his expressions of affection made Illya feel awkward, but they were long past the days when he’d let that hold him back. He remembered the trouble he’d had, early on, after they’d been partners a few months, tempering his warm nature and growing fondness with awareness of his partner’s reticence.

Illya did not reach out. Others came to him, and he permitted or denied them access as he chose. After five years of being closer to him than to anyone else, Illya still had not voluntarily touched Napoleon for any reason save need. That had grieved him, once, until he understood that Illya lacked, not emotion, but ease of expressing it.

 _Still_ , he thought, squeezing his partner’s arm gently and letting go ... _still, it would be nice if just once_...

He shook his head. “I know you are. I’m sorry. This wasn’t my idea. Mr. Waverly wanted you on it.”

“He didn’t tell you why?”

“No.”

His partner sighed, returned to gazing out the fogged window, and Napoleon examined him as his coffee and croissant arrived.

The Madagascar mission had worn the Russian down both physically and emotionally — the latter due both to seeing his partner within a hairsbreadth of a spectacular plunge to a rocky demise, and to seeing an old friend from Russia betray him and subsequently die.

Napoleon had objected to including Illya on this assignment on that basis, but Mr. Waverly was not one to let a little trauma, past or future, interfere with his, or UNCLE’s, goals.

“Mr. Solo, I appreciate your concern for your partner. However, you must trust that if I say there is a reason for Mr. Kuryakin’s presence, that is so.”

Taking in his partner’s still drawn countenance, the circles under the normally unlined eyes, Napoleon sighed. He fully understood that in service to UNCLE and its goals, every agent could expect to be unapologetically used, body, mind and spirit, to the last drop. But sometimes it bothered him.

Sometimes. Not when the last drop was his. When it was Illya’s.

And that was the reason he hadn’t wanted to come on this mission himself, though he would never have been able to voice that hesitancy to his superior.

Napoleon had been within a heartbeat of pulling Illya out of Madagascar near the end. Only Illya’s own mulish insistence had kept him from it. That in itself would not necessarily have been the death knell for Napoleon’s objectivity. Missions had been aborted before — though they always went on the books as failures — when the losses looked to outweigh the gains.

But that wasn’t the reason. There’d been no mathematical calculation going on in Napoleon’s head, no cunning plans of strategic withdrawal — only the imminent danger of losing his partner.

Ironically, he himself had come closer to death than Illya. That hadn’t even given him pause.

Napoleon would have liked, after that shattering realization, some private down time, to look hard into whatever he had left by way of a heart, reconsider some assumptions and consider some potential changes. Maybe even find some thread of denial to stitch up the hole Madagascar had opened in his soul.

But Mr. Waverly had contacted him on the plane home, spoken to him while Illya slept, and that was that. It was impossible to argue that you were too tired and upset to save the world.

“Is it that bad?”

Illya’s quiet words brought him back.

He shook his head. “Sorry. I was woolgathering.”

“Which means?”

“Thinking. We’re on escort duty this trip, I can tell you that much. Someone’s coming in from the cold. From THRUSH to UNCLE. We’re waiting for Marcel — remember him?”

Illya nodded.

“He’ll take us to the person we’re to escort.”

Illya waited. Napoleon said, “I don’t know much more than that. There seems to be a strong concern about ... eavesdroppers. Whether of us, Marcel, or our ... parcel, I don’t know.”

A tiny blue car zoomed to a swerving stop in front of the cafe, spraying gutter water over already wet pavements.

“There he is.” Napoleon and Illya got up, both automatically fishing in their pockets for cash to pay the bill. Both agents came out with a handful of bills at the same time.  Napoleon had francs; Illya had guilders. They looked at one another. Napoleon shrugged and dropped a few francs on the table, and they dashed from the warm damp of the restaurant into the chill damp of the street; rain misted down as they bundled quickly into the tiny battered car. Marcel grinned at them.

“Napoleon, Illya. Good to see you both again.” A small, dark, wiry, man, Marcel always reminded Napoleon of a retired circus trapeze artist. He yanked the car into gear and roared off. Both knuckly hands tight on the wheel, he drove in the intent, jerky manner of a man who spent little time behind the wheel.

“We’ve had some trouble,” he began. “David LaMont, who was to escort this THRUSH defector to Bruxelles, was shot outside his hotel. In the head, but not a sniper. Up close. They knew where he was staying. I can’t imagine why they don’t know where the defector is. They’re monitoring our communications or they’re very damn’ lucky.”

“What can you tell us about the defector?” Illya asked. The car, warm and moist, smelled faintly of cigarettes.

“A THRUSH scientist. That’s all I know. He or she wanted to come in from the cold. Contacted our people in Prague, and they got him, or her, as far as a safehouse here.” He nodded up the road. They headed south, across the canal, leaving Brugge for the flat rain-beaten countryside; everything was vague and grey in the misty downpour. “David would have brought the defector to the airport at Bruxelles. When he was killed ... well, they brought in the big guns.” He smiled faintly. Napoleon exchanged a grimace with his partner.

“How important is this scientist?” Napoleon asked. “Mr. Waverly didn’t give any indication.”

Marcel shrugged. “No one’s told me either. I’ve been keeping a low profile since David was killed. He and I are — were, I should say — the only ones who know where the scientist is hiding.”

“Are transmissions being monitored?” Illya asked.

“Paris hasn’t been able to detect any monitoring on any of our channels,” Marcel went on. “Unless they’ve been following the defector the entire time ...” He shook his head.

“Why would they wait to take him, then?” Napoleon finished Marcel’s thought. “Could they simply have been following David?”

Marcel shrugged. “We were careless, maybe, at first, thinking this was no more than a low-level defection. Now we’re being careful. But we still don’t know where the leak is.”

“Communications blackout?” Illya said quietly to his partner. Napoleon nodded, even as Marcel said:

“If you gentlemen wish to use your communicators, it is your choice of course, but I will tell you that I have not been in touch with Paris for two days. Once we have collected this scientist and I have unloaded you all at the airport in Bruxelles, I’ll feel comfortable calling in.”

Marcel pulled off the highway onto a narrower two-lane road running west between low hedges. The sun appeared briefly, red and low, ahead of them, through a distant tear in the blanket of clouds.

Napoleon glanced back. “The van behind us.”

Illya nodded.

Marcel glanced in the rearview mirror. “I saw it on the highway.”

“It was behind us in Brugge,” Illya said, and Napoleon felt that familiar hard jolt to his stomach.

“Can you take a turn somewhere and double back?” Napoleon asked. “See what they do?” He loosened his trench coat for easier access to his weapon.

The sun departed, but the rain continued. Marcel switched on the headlamps and slowed, looking for a lane to turn onto.

He found one at last, a one-vehicle-wide gravel lane twisting off into the fields, and yanked the wheel. The little car bounced along the road, splashing through potholes.

“It’ll be difficult to turn around,” Napoleon observed, hand braced on the ceiling of the car to keep from hitting his head.

“There’ll be a turnaround up ahead somewhere,” Marcel said. “Are they coming?”

“I don’t see any headlights,” Napoleon said. “Would they try it in the dark?”

“The worst that might happen is they’d hit a hedge.” Illya drew his UNCLE Special. “When you come to a spot where we can turn around, do so. Stop the car and turn off the lights.”

“Are you sure?” Marcel said.

“Would you rather lead them to the THRUSH defector before we find out who they are?”

“If you’re asking me whether I would rather live, or die for the sake of a THRUSH defector...” Marcel grimaced and bent over the steering wheel. The rain drummed on the car, poured all around, limiting visibility to no more than 20 feet in front of the vehicle and about 5 feet where they lacked the aid of headlights.

The hedges stopped and a stone bridge appeared in the headlights. Marcel gunned the car across the humped bridge and then spun the wheel hard, pulling onto the grass on the other side. He performed a quick three-point turn, facing the car toward the road, then killed lights and motor.

All they could see through the downpour was the dim grey arc of the bridge. The drumming on the roof meant there was no hope of hearing the van if it was coming — and if its lights were off, they wouldn’t see it until it came over the bridge.

Illya cursed and opened his door. Napoleon caught his arm, opened his own door.

“My turn to take point.” He drew his gun and stepped out into the rain, easing the door to behind him. Blinking against the rain, he crossed the narrow belt of soggy grass, keeping low, until he’d reached the corner of the bridge. To his right the grass bank sloped steeply down to a creek, its dark waters pockmarked by the raindrops. The road met the bridge to his left. He knelt, breathing in the distinct scent of wet cow manure, and peered around the edge of the bridge.

He glimpsed the front of the van, stopped on the other side of the bridge. Then he heard the crack of a rifle shot and the edge of the stone by his head spattered, spitting white flecks. Instinct jerked him back before the stinging pain could, as another shot slapped against the stone. He spun away from the road and set his back to the stone, blinking rain from his eyes. His forehead and cheek burned; scrapes from stone shrapnel, probably.

Marcel and Illya slipped out of the car and darted to his side, guns in hand. Another shot hit the fender of their car, sending up one small spark. Napoleon wiped his eyes and looked at his hand; darker than it should be if it were just rainwater.

Illya crouched, grabbed Napoleon’s face in his free hand and turned it back and forth, squinting through the rain.

“Can you see?” he asked. Napoleon nodded. Two more rifle shots cracked against the stone. Illya drew his gun and sidled along the stone wall a little closer to the water, then poked his head over the top of the bridge. Immediately two bullets smacked against the bridge and he ducked.

“How many?” Marcel asked.

Illya shrugged. “Can’t tell.”

Napoleon edged around the wall and squeezed off three evenly spaced shots, without the least hope of hitting anything — just to remind their foes they too were armed. Illya took advantage of the return volley, directed at Napoleon’s position, to pop up and take another look. His eyes widened and he sank down, sitting on his haunches against the bridge. “I think they have a rocket launcher.”

“What?” Marcel cried — and they heard the deep _pock_ of the launcher. All three men pressed themselves against the bridge and their tiny car exploded, spraying red and blue flame and smoke hissing into the wet sky.

Three men cursed in three different languages as blazing pieces of what had been an automobile fell around them, sizzling as the rain doused them.

Marcel grabbed Napoleon’s sleeve. “You two get out of here.”

Napoleon stared at him.

“ _Merde_ — listen, someone has to get to the scientist and get him out of here. I can at least keep them off your trail.”

“We don’t even know—” Illya began.

“Cross the river and follow it upstream.” Marcel pointed into the darkness of the tree-lined creek. “It is no more than three kilometers. A cottage, on the river. There are no other buildings.”

They heard the van’s engine start. Illya popped up and fired three shots; answering fire was immediate and in greater quantity.

“Go,” Marcel said.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged a look, readable even in the rain and darkness. They didn’t have the ammunition for a pitched battle, and the point was to get the defector, not kill random THRUSH goons.

Illya fished in his coat pockets, found a spare clip and slapped it into Marcel’s hand.

“ _Bon chance_ ,” Napoleon said, and they ran for it, past the burning car and into the bushes and trees that lined the creekside. A few shots sang over their heads, and they heard the answering fire from Marcel’s UNCLE Special, but even those sharp sounds were quickly muted by the downpour and the sound of their passage through the sodden underbrush.

They kept within arm’s reach of one another as they walked, both fully aware that Marcel was not likely to survive, and that they would probably be followed. Napoleon continually wiped water and what he presumed to be blood, though he couldn’t see it, from his face. His brow and cheek were sore to the touch, and puffy, if his cold wet fingers were any judge, but the damage was minor. He was more concerned with how they were going to get this THRUSH defector to safety without transportation.

They walked fast, staying in the cover of the trees at the cost of several whiplashes from unseen branches as they plunged through the deluged dark. After about a quarter hour Illya stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“We need to cross over,” he said. Napoleon nodded. There might be a bridge farther up, but they couldn’t risk staying on this side of the river; they might pass the safehouse without seeing it.

The banks were steep, the grass slick, and the underbrush more hindrance than help as the agents skidded and stumbled in the dark down to the water. Napoleon’s heel slid out from under him halfway down; he grasped at branches as he fell, felt Illya grab him, then they both half-slid, half-tumbled down into the creek.

Napoleon landed with a splash in chill water, on his back and also on some very hard rocks that lined the creek bed. Illya rolled to a stop on the bank, got up, and pulled his partner to his feet. Napoleon shook the excess water from his arms, pointlessly, he realized, and gave his partner a look that, despite the dimness, was easily read. Illya responded with a faint smile and a push in the direction of the far bank.

The creek was neither deep nor broad; the cold water rose to their knees as they crossed. The climb up the far bank was an adventure in scratched hands and banged knees as they slid time and again on the wet grass before finally reaching the level ground above. Soaked, bruised and radiating irritation, they plodded on, trees and creek on their left hand, a low stone wall that bordered a flat field on their right.

After about another 15 minutes they saw the safehouse: a dark thatched cottage pinched between the field fence and the trees, with a ramshackle shed and a broken down wagon in front of it. The small windows in the stone face were shuttered; no sliver of light escaped. A dirt road led north between two low stone walls.

Both men drew their guns and made a circuit around the cottage, seeing nothing untoward. At the front, Napoleon tilted his head at Illya.

“Shall we knock?”

Illya shrugged, indicating with his gun that Napoleon should precede him.

Napoleon tapped on the rattling wooden door three times, then opened it. A faint red glow came from a hearth facing the door, but most of the room was in shadow. Guns ready, they moved into the doorway.

“ _Arret_.” The voice, in French — a woman’s voice — snapped at them from the shadows inside. “ _Je suis armee_.”

They stopped. A table stood in the middle, a bench against the wall, and a cot alongside a sink with an old-fashioned pump handle. Cobwebs hung from the bare beams above.

The voice said, “Illya?” and a small woman came out of the shadows beside the stone fireplace, revolver in hand. She wore a long dark coat and boots.

Napoleon looked at his partner as both men lowered their weapons.

Illya scowled. “Marie?”

She lowered the revolver and hurried across the kitchen; the two embraced like old friends.

“I’m glad they sent you,” Marie said. “I’ve been scared.”

“I didn’t expect—” Illya began, glancing at Napoleon.

Napoleon shrugged. “I didn’t know. They don’t tell me everything either.”

Marie drew back to look at Illya, still holding his arms. “God. You look well. The same, almost.”

“You look well too,” he said, continuing in French as she had done. She touched her short, tousled brown hair. “Me? I am a mess. After fleeing Prague and hiding here in this ... hut for three days.” She looked around dismissively. Then she regarded Napoleon.

“I’m sorry,” Illya said. “This is my partner, Napoleon Solo. Dr. Marie Cheval.”

She extended her hand. He bowed over her fingertips. “Enchante, Dr. Cheval.”

She looked him up and down, said in English, “So you are the famous Napoleon Solo. But I don’t need to iterate the reputation you and Illya have. And you are to be my escorts to ... freedom.” She smiled, but Napoleon saw weariness and fear in her eyes.

“Yes,” he said, “but we find ourselves in something of a pickle.”

“Pickle?”

“Difficulty.”

Scowling, she looked to Illya. “What’s going on?”

Illya looked at her from under his brows. “Don’t ask me. Ask Mr. ‘Need to Know’ over there.”

Napoleon explained the situation while both agents divested themselves of their soggy outerwear. Illya checked out the room, then went to the hearth to stir up the fire.

“Then they are coming here now?” Marie exclaimed, clutching the Manurhin tighter.

“I don’t think so,” Illya put in from his fireside perch. “They were following us on the road, so they obviously don’t know where you are. And as we came the last few miles across country—”

“—and water—” Napoleon interjected.

“I’m so sorry,” Marie said. “And I have no dry clothes or towels to offer you.”

“We’ll dry,” Napoleon said. “We won’t be departing immediately. Our real problem is to get you to London sans transportation.” He moved toward the fire but didn’t sit. Though tired, and battered from his tumble, he felt uncomfortable sitting in wet clothes. He also thought better on his feet.

Marie glanced at Illya, shrugged, removed her coat. “So. I will put coffee on. Make yourselves at home.”

Napoleon walked the perimeter of the room. A narrow door at one side of the stone fireplace led into a lumber room, windowless and with no other door. On the other side of the fireplace a small alcove boasted an empty wooden bedframe and a very small window, shuttered and curtainless.

“All the comforts of home,” he said. Marie chuckled sourly.

Napoleon glanced at his partner, leaning on the warm stones beside the fire, and suddenly realized that what he’d taken for a shadow was spreading.

With a muttered expletive he walked around the bench to peer at Illya’s shoulder.

“Take your jacket off.”

Illya opened one eye.

Napoleon started pulling at his lapels. “You didn’t tell me you’d been hit.” Marie turned from the counter, coffee pot in her hand.

Illya sat up and glanced at the blood staining the front of his shirt.

“In the first place, I don’t tell you a lot of things.”

Napoleon unbuttoned the still damp shirt and peeled the t-shirt underneath away from the skin as Illya shrugged out of the jacket and holster.

“That’s one of your many bad habits.”

A jagged puncture and cut under the Russian’s right collarbone was oozing blood. “Dr. Cheval, do you have any cloths? Bandages? Antiseptics?”

“And in the second place,” Illya said, twisting to look at his shoulder, “I don’t think I _was_ hit.”

“You were, but not by a bullet.” Napoleon examined the wound.

“Ow—Napoleon!”

“It looks like a branch or stick must’ve stabbed you during our little jaunt through the woods.”

Marie brought a cloth and a tiny bottle of peroxide. “I’ve no bandages. I only have the peroxide because it was in my purse when I fled.”

Napoleon dabbed away the blood, then applied the peroxide.

“It should be all right,” he said.

“I’ve been cut worse at the barber’s.”

“Yes,” Napoleon said, still looking clinically at the puncture. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, too.”

“Give me your shirt and your undershirt,” Marie said. “I’ll rinse the blood out while it’s still wet.” Illya removed them — taking his communicator from the pocket of his shirt — and Marie took them to the sink, pumping water over them.

Napoleon wiped the rest of the blood from Illya’s shoulder, then laid a clean portion of the cloth over the hole and lifted his partner’s left hand to cover it, pressing firmly.

“Hold it there a few minutes.”

Illya sighed, closing his eyes again. “Yes, Napoleon.”

“And don’t give me that ‘yes Napoleon’ baloney.”

“Yes, Napoleon.”

“You’re lucky new partners are so hard to break in.”

“Not half as lucky as you are.”

Napoleon didn’t remove his hand, and after three heartbeats, Illya opened his eyes.

Napoleon’s world shrank, in that instant, to two things; Illya’s piercing gaze, and his partner’s hand, warm and alive under his. Napoleon swallowed, unable to move, feeling the blood burn in his face. Illya said nothing, but his eyes narrowed. Then his other hand rose, slowly, to cover Napoleon’s.

Napoleon’s chest tightened. Never had the meaning of intimacy been so clear, so painful, as in the sensation of his hand between his partner’s hands. He couldn’t breathe. _What in God’s name is happening?_

“There,” Marie announced from her position at the sink. “That should do it.”

Napoleon pulled away, got up. Illya’s eyes never left him.

“Do you...” He cleared his throat, damning himself. “Do you want some coffee?”

Puzzlement creased Illya’s brow. “Yes, thank you.”

Napoleon went to the stove and filled three cups, slowly, forcing himself to breathe slowly, silently shouting down his nerve endings _. Focus. Focus on the job at hand. Distractions can be fatal. Not just to you._

That last thought steadied him. He picked up two of the cups and returned to sit beside his partner on the bench. Illya accepted his cup, still watching Napoleon curiously.

“So,” Napoleon asked, cringing inside at the whore-bright tone of his voice. “Old friend?”

“Napoleon...” Illya shook his head, a plain change of subject. “Yes.  We were at the Sorbonne together for a year.” Illya sipped the coffee, grimaced, and set it on the hearth.

Napoleon, calmer, watched him. The fire at his back burnished his skin and hair, turning both molten red-gold and leaving his face in darkness. Napoleon’s gaze traced a couple of raised scars over Illya’s right shoulder blade, shadowed by the flickering light.

He forced his head away, staring instead at the cracked porcelain of his coffee cup until his nerves stopped tingling.

“How old a friend is she?” He pushed the question out.

“What you really mean is ‘how friendly,’ don’t you?” Illya pulled his gun out of the holster.

Napoleon shrugged. “Dallying with THRUSH women is usually my form of birdwatching, not yours.”

“She wasn’t with THRUSH when we ...”

Napoleon offered, “Dallied?” He got up and went to his coat, pulling the compact cleaning kit out of an inside pocket. _Business as usual_ , he mocked himself.

“We weren’t ... we didn’t ...” Illya stopped, expression sour. “We were friendly acquaintances, Napoleon. That is all.”

Napoleon returned to the bench. “If you say so, partner.”

“Not every man beds every woman he meets,” Illya said. “You mustn’t model everyone after your own behavior.”

“That’s no answer,” Napoleon protested mildly; the banter was balm to his ragged mood. He opened the kit, pleased to see that his hands were steady.  “It’s not even true.”

“Does every answer have to be true?” Illya asked, pulling the cleaning fluid and a cloth from his partner’s kit.

In turns, the agents disassembled their guns to clean and dry them after the drenching they’d taken in the river.

Marie draped Illya’s shirts over the back of a chair and moved it close to the fire. With the Manurhin tucked behind her belted slacks she looked like a WWII Resistance fighter. She watched as they worked, distributing cleaning paraphernalia in efficient silence.

“You two are quite a well-oiled machine, aren’t you?” she said. Both men looked at her, startled, then at one another.

Illya smiled and bent his head to continue working.

“At the moment, I wouldn’t call us that.” Napoleon snapped a clip into his reassembled weapon, worked the slide to chamber a round, and rose to pace again. “We’re not doing the most well-oiled job of getting you to London, for instance. We need to move out of here before dawn, but the road is probably being watched.”

Illya looked ruefully at the communicator by his side. “I suppose we shouldn’t ask to be picked up?”

Napoleon shrugged. “Marcel didn’t recommend it.”

“That was one blown-up vehicle ago. Are we going to walk to Bruxelles?”

“You’re getting lazy in your old age.”

Unmoved, Illya said, “And you’re getting senile in yours. It’s 80 kilometers to Bruxelles.”

“What is that in real numbers?” He gave his partner a sidelong, raised-eyebrow glance. Illya snorted.

“Ethnocentric American.”

Napoleon waggled his head. “Archaic Russian.”

Marie laughed, and both men looked at her.

“You’ve changed,” she said to Illya. He shook his head, feigning disinterest, so Marie addressed Napoleon.

“He never used to do that,” she said.

“Do what?”

“What is the word? Banter.” She smiled. “I’ve never seen him so ... easy. He was always so serious. So strict with himself. Friendly, but always in so unfriendly a way.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Napoleon said, shooting his partner a teasing grin.

“I think both of you are slightly delusional,” the Russian muttered.

Marie said, “What is it the Americans say? You have found your ... niche?” She watched Illya put his gun back together, having, as usual, done a more than thorough job of cleaning it “How long have you been with UNCLE?”

“Five years,” he replied. “How long have you been with THRUSH?”

She took no visible offense. “Two years. Then I realized — they let me realize — what they truly were.”

To Napoleon, since Illya seemed to be ignoring her again, Marie said, “I was not like Illya. I was ambitious. And not many positions of power are open to women. After I had beat my head against that reality for a few years THRUSH found me and offered me the chance to head my own lab in Prague.” She shrugged. “I didn’t ask too many questions.”

“This is why I was brought along, isn’t it?” Illya asked his partner.

Marie said, “I asked for you. Someone I could trust.”

“It doesn’t seem to me that a THRUSH could trust anyone from UNCLE,” Illya said blandly, reloading his gun. Napoleon was a trifle surprised at Illya’s unfriendliness, but then Illya didn’t find it easy to separate personal and professional loyalties.

Marie, unoffended, said, “I knew I could trust you. To do the right thing, the fair thing. The kind thing. I know if you give your word you’ll keep it. That’s all I asked.”

Pausing next to his partner, Napoleon said, low, “Sorry. Mr. Waverly insisted.”

Illya shrugged. “I don’t mind being used in a good cause.”

Napoleon found himself smiling. “I’ll have to remember that.”

His partner shot him a puzzled look, but there was a half-smile underneath it. “You should know that about me by now.”

Napoleon shook his head. “Sir Galahad.”

The eyebrow rose. “Not Lancelot? You think I have yet to fall from grace?”

Napoleon considered his own internal quest, shrugged. “I’m probably not the best judge,” he admitted.

“Lancelot was forbidden to touch the grail because of his sins,” Marie said, surprising both men.

“But he was permitted to see it,” Illya said.

Marie smiled. “Was that meant as reward, or punishment?”

~*~*~

They drank their coffee and draped their coats by the fire, sorting options in long-familiar verbal shorthand that left Marie gazing at them, puzzled.

“We’ll have to make for the highway,” Napoleon told her finally. “At least there we have a chance of hitching a ride, and if worse comes to worst, we can call for help while we’re moving; it’ll give THRUSH less chance to pin down our location.”

“Now?” Marie asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Napoleon glanced at his watch. “Actually it’s just eight.”

Illya, at the tiny window, said, “And we can’t wait until morning.”

His tone yanked Napoleon’s focus. His hand darted to his holster.

Marie said, “Why not?”

Illya backed away from the glass, drawing his UNCLE Special. “Someone is out there.”

~*~*~

The door slammed open, bounced against the stone wall, and swung back. One THRUSH, holding the standard issue rifle, braced his shoulder against it and three others poured into the tiny firelit room, spraying cold rainwater, strange, bulky pistols at the ready.

The man at the door barked: “ _Les trouvez_.”

The three men spread out. Three shots cracked the air in the tiny cottage, and they crumpled one after the other.

“ _Montrez-vous_!” The last man backed out, rifle upraised, scanning the room wildly.

“ _Va-t’en_!” he shouted, then sprayed the room with deafening gunfire; bullets sparked off the stone fireplace, shattered the windows, splintered the table and bench in front of the fire.

He stopped, breathing hard, and in the echoing quiet heard something thump in the back of the cottage. He inched forward.

Napoleon and Illya dropped from the rafters onto his shoulders, driving him to the floor; the rifle slipped from his grasp and slid across the floorboards

Both agents delivered hard chops to the THRUSH-man’s neck, and he went limp. Illya picked up the rifle and set it on the counter. He grabbed his and his partner’s coats and went to the door.

Marie peeked around from the back of the fireplace.

Napoleon held up a hand to her as he yanked his coat on; he and Illya slipped out into the dark.

The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle. They scanned the yard, the lane, and the fields, and saw no movement. Sharing a glance, they split up to check the rest of the area. Napoleon took the immediate environs of the cottage while Illya went along the riverside to see if anyone was hiding in the undergrowth there. They met again a quarter hour later and trudged back toward the square of red light that was the doorway of the cottage.

And they stopped.

The THRUSH guard was on his knees facing Marie. She raised the revolver and shot him, high in the chest. He arced backward and collapsed.

The agents approached Marie and the dead THRUSH. Her stare jerked up from him to Illya and Napoleon. She was shaking visibly.

Gently Napoleon said, “We would have preferred to have questioned him.”

“Sorry. I — “ She shuddered, slid the Manurhin into her coat pocket. “He got up and ... I’m not ...I didn’t...” She backed away from the body, bumped into the wall. “I’m a scientist, not a ... a spy.”

Napoleon looked at Illya, who shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. That can’t be all of them. They wouldn’t have left their vehicle unattended. We need to move now.”

~*~*~

A truck with hard sides and a canvas back flap was parked by the side of the road, bonnet up, two men bent over the engine. Ducking down, the two agents and the defector crept forward behind the stone wall until they could hear. The men talked in bored, irritated tones, punctuated by clanking mechanical noises, revealing that they were moving men unhappy to be taking a load of furniture to Dunkirk at this ridiculous hour.

Illya and Napoleon exchanged a look encompassing the consideration, and acceptance, of a change in plans. Illya took hold of Marie’s arm and the three of them moved behind the wall toward the back of the truck.

The truck’s engine rumbled to life and they quickly slipped over the wall and ran. Illya boosted Marie into the back of the truck; he and Napoleon followed, tumbling to the floorboards as the truck lurched into gear and rolled back onto the road.

Blanket-draped furniture was crammed into the front half of the truck; Marie and Napoleon settled down on stacks of unused blankets near the back. Illya moved toward the piled-up furniture, swaying with the motion of the truck.

“Dunkirk here we come,” Napoleon said, leaning exhausted against the side of the truck. His ribs ached from bouncing off the rocks in the river. All three of them were wet through and muddied to the knees from their cross-fields trek to the road.

“I thought you were taking me to the Bruxelles airport,” Marie protested mildly.

“Yes. Other people may think that too,” Napoleon explained. “So we aren’t. I’m bunting.”

Marie scowled. “ _Quoi_?”

Illya snorted, settling down on a blanket-covered sofa. “Never mind him. He thinks baseball is high art.”

“You’re just mad because my team won,” Napoleon said.

“Neither of them was my team. I only went to make you stop nagging me.” He pulled a dusty blanket over himself. “Wake me when we get back to New York.”

Marie gaped at Napoleon. “You took him to a baseball game?”

Napoleon grinned. “Still haven’t lived that one down. He _hated_ it.”

She shook her head, marveling. “I cannot believe you persuaded him to attend one at all. A baseball game! In two years I never saw Illya do one frivolous thing. Not one. And believe me, I pushed.”

Napoleon regarded her. “I’ll bet you did.” She met his speculation squarely.

“Yes, Mr. Solo. I did.” She glanced at Illya as if fearful he would overhear her. If he did, he gave no sign of it. Lowering her voice, she went on. “You cannot pretend to be ignorant as to why. He is lit from within by a golden fire.”

She examined Napoleon with great interest. “And now ... Illya Kuryakin is comfortable in the world. I never thought to see him ... happy.”

Napoleon said drily, “Give him something to blow up and he’ll be ecstatic.”

She waved at him, dismissal of his sarcasm. “You know what I mean.”

Napoleon shook his head but didn’t argue; that would have involved revealing more of Illya’s post-Madagascar state of mind than he cared to. He knew his partner was far from happy at the moment, but he found himself unwilling to deny her general thesis — that Illya had found his place. At Napoleon’s side.

_And my place is at his. We’re the perfect team. Too perfect. Too close. I’m not sure I can continue to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, not with him at my side._

~*~*~

Napoleon awoke at a bump in the road. He didn’t remember lying down, or covering himself up, but both had obviously occured. He sat up and looked out the canvas flap. It was still raining. They were in a town; cars swished past on either side. In the grey dimness he peered at his watch; it was five minutes to midnight. He looked around, cold rain splashing on his face, until he recognized Dunkirk. The moving van turned a corner and drove along a quiet street lined with factories.

He turned to survey the inside of the truck. Marie and Illya sat on the sofa, heads together, chuckling. Marie laid her hand on Illya’s arm for a moment, punctuating soft words that made him smile. Something he refused to admit even to himself tweaked inside Napoleon, and he made his way over to them.

“Am I intruding?” he asked in French. Both of them looked up.

“Never,” Illya said calmly.

“We were trading reminiscences on a particularly hapless fellow student,” Marie said, still smiling.

“Did you sleep well?” Illya asked, and Napoleon realized, by something in his partner’s tone that he could not define, who had tucked him in when he’d dozed off. He grinned.

“Like the dead. It’s just about time.”

“We’re in Dunkirk?” Marie asked, looking at her watch. “That was fast. We must—” She shrugged. “We must not have been where I thought we were.” She gave both men a smile. “I would make a very poor spy. I don’t even know where I am.”

Napoleon said, “We need to be ready to pile out whenever and wherever he stops. It may take us a while at this hour to find transportation to Calais.”

“Can’t we just call a cab?” Illya said.

Surprised, Napoleon considered the idea. “Hm. Why not? Smart Russian.”

Illya tried to hide his smug smile. “You should know that about me by now too.”

“I hate to be a troublemaker,” Marie said. “But could we possibly find somewhere to get a coffee and something to eat?”

The agents considered.

“No one is following us,” she said. “How could they be? Can’t we stop long enough for sustenance?”

“At this hour it’s likely to be a truck stop,” Napoleon warned her.

“I don’t know what that is,” she replied.

“A transport cafe,” Illya translated. He got up and went to the back of the truck.

“I don’t care,” she said. “A croissant. A coffee. That’s all I ask. I don’t even care that I’m wet and cold and filthy and exhausted.”

“Good,” Illya said, peering out through the canvas flap. “Because that state is likely to continue for some time.”

She stuck her tongue out at his back and Napoleon chuckled.

The van shuddered to a groaning halt in a shabby residential neighborhood, and they piled out of the back to walk along dark, quiet, sodden streets, rain beating on their heads, until they found a corner cafe that smelled of sweat and coffee and grease near the center of town.

Illya walked into the back while Napoleon and Marie found a table near the door and ordered dinner for three. Napoleon scanned the dozen or so men who sat in the little diner wolfing down sandwiches and wine. None of them paid the newcomers any attention. Illya came from the back after a few minutes and shook his head once at Napoleon’s questioning glance, to indicate he’d seen nothing dangerous.

Napoleon found himself thinking, as his partner turned the chair backward and sat on it, how tired he looked. Illya tired, though, was like a sword well-honed — all unnecessary parts worn away, leaving only the blade, narrow, gleaming, deadly. Beautiful.

Napoleon shook his head, jerked his gaze away. He glanced at Marie; she was pale, with dark circles under her brown eyes. He felt cold, battered and exhausted himself. Their coats streamed water onto the yellowing linoleum floor as they sat limply awaiting their food.

“I’m sorry you have to go through all this,” he said to Marie. She shrugged.

“It was my choice. I’ll live.”

Their food arrived, coffee and dry bread and steaming bowls of soup.

Illya tackled his food without ceremony. Marie laughed.

“You still eat like a little boy.”

“Last meal,” Illya said between mouthfuls.

Surprised, Marie looked to Napoleon.

Dipping his spoon into the soup, Napoleon said, “Potentially.”

“Ah.” Marie spread her napkin on her lap. “I see.”

“Eat fast,” Illya said. “Our ride will be leaving any minute.”

Napoleon and Marie both looked at him this time.

He paused in his shoveling. “You noticed the cab outside, of course.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Just let him do it his way, Dr. Cheval.” To Illya he said, in a wide-eyed tone, “Why no, we didn’t.”

Illya’s expression and voice became professorial. “Indeed. I spoke to the driver—” a tilt of the head toward the back of the cafe— “and he would be delighted to take us to Calais in the middle of the night.”

“Oh.” Marie sat back, brows arched. “I feel as if I should applaud.”

“Please don’t,” Napoleon said. “His head will never fit through the door.”

Illya stage-whispered to Marie, “He hates it when I’m perfect.”

Airily Napoleon said, “On the contrary. I depend on it.” He lifted his coffee cup in salute before gulping down a bitter semi-liquid that had obviously been sitting on the fire since the morning.

Ten minutes later, stomachs sloshing with coffee and soup, they followed the cabby, a squat florid man with thinning red hair, out into the cold drizzle to his battered black Renault. They piled in, Illya in front, and without a word he zoomed away from the cafe and made his way to the coastal highway leading to Calais.

Traffic was sparse. Outside the car all Napoleon could see besides the road was an occasional rain-blurred light off in the distance. He thought, but was too tired to say, does it ever stop raining around here?

After 15 minutes of quiet the driver, startling them, asked, “ _Anglais_?”

“ _Non_ ,” Illya said.

“American,” Napoleon said clearly, touching Marie on the wrist. The less she said — the less she was noticed by anyone — the better.

“American!” the driver seemed delighted. “I practice my American!” He twisted around to grin briefly at Napoleon before returning his eyes to the road. “Where you from, buddy?”

Napoleon smiled tiredly. “New York. How about you ... buddy?”

The driver laughed. “I am from Dunkirk. How do you like this weather?”

Illya turned sideways in the front seat to look behind them.

“I wish it would stop raining,” Napoleon said. “How long will it take us to get to Calais?” He glanced back, saw headlights a fair distance behind them.

“Oh, about half an hour. Where are you staying?”

“We don’t know yet,” Illya said.

“Let me recommend my father-in-law’s place. 8 Place D’Armes. Elegant. Old-world charm. All the modern conveniences. Discreet.” He winked at Illya while Napoleon wondered what brochure he’d memorized those lines from.

“Thanks,” Illya said sourly, looking back again. His eyes sparked and Napoleon turned again. The lights were closer, gaining fast.

“Someone’s in a hurry,” Napoleon remarked as the car behind them swerved into the opposite lane. “Slow down and let him pass.” He slid his hand into his coat to grasp his gun.

“To hell with that,” the cabbie said, and the Renault accelerated.

“Don’t,” Illya said. “Let him by.”

Napoleon glanced at his partner, saw Illya’s hand disappearing into his coat. He rolled down his window — if there was going to be any shooting he didn’t need glass spraying in his face — and turned in his seat, cold rain whipping against his skin, as the car roared up alongside them. Instead of passing them, it slowed.

“Stop!” Illya shouted at the cabbie. The man glanced at him, mystified. The driver’s side window shattered and the cabbie slammed sideways against Illya, hands flying up from the wheel. The cab swerved, tires shrieking on the pavement.

Marie screamed as both agents scrambled for control of the taxi. Napoleon pulled the cabdriver’s limp body out of the way and Illya squeezed past him to grab the wheel and hit the brakes as the taxi thumped off the road and onto the grass embankment.

He stomped on the brake. The taxi shuddered sideways, caught with a jerk, and bounced to a stop.

The other car slid to a screeching halt in front of them, then backed up.

Napoleon opened the door. “Stay with her,” he said to Illya. “Stay behind the car.”

He then took advantage of the dark and driving rain to slip out and dart across the highway as their attackers parked and climbed out — three of them — pistols pointed at the Renault. He dove for the tall grass — he could have sworn he splashed when he hit — and crawled toward the sedan.

A volley of shots came from behind the Renault. One THRUSH fell. The others darted behind their sedan, raising their pistols over the bonnet to fire back. Bullets snapped against the Renault, strange plastic sounds. Napoleon thought: Sleep darts.

From his clear vantage, Napoleon took careful aim on the two gunmen and dropped them efficiently, doing the same with the driver when he sprang out of the car. He ran half-crouched to the car, passing the driver’s prone body, and peered inside; empty.

Headlights approached far down the road toward Calais. Napoleon circled around to see Illya and Marie straighten up from behind the Renault.

“You all right?” he asked. Marie started, began casting about the grass around the cab. Illya glanced at her.

“My gun!” she said. “I’ve lost it.” She kept looking.

Illya shook his head and walked past Napoleon, saying, “The cab driver is dead,” then circling the car to check out the casualties.

The headlights drew nearer, slowed, slowed nearly to a stop as the driver examined the two skewed cars and the dark lumps on the road. The driver came to a quick decision and the car shot away up the road in a roar of accelaration and a blur of red taillights.

“Leave it,” Napoleon said to Marie, still frantically scanning the grass.

“No,” she said. “I need — ah — here it is.”

Puzzled, Napoleon watched her retrieve the heavy revolver and return it to her belt. Then he turned to consider the mess they’d made and what they should do about it before they moved on.

Illya had pulled the three dead THRUSH gunmen to the side of the road. He picked up one of their weapons as Napoleon arrived, turned it over curiously, then handed it to Napoleon and went to the driver. Marie stood against the Renault and watched them.

Napoleon popped the magazine and looked at the rounds, flicking one out of the clip. Tranquilizer darts. That explained the strange guns, and the strange sound. It made sense that they’d want Dr. Cheval back alive.

Illya knelt beside the driver’s prone body. Napoleon reached Illya’s side as his partner turned the driver over. Illya froze, then cursed, a surprisingly bitter Russian invective. Napoleon’s stomach jolted.

It was Marcel.

“Hostage?” he barked. Illya was already patting him down; he reached into Marcel’s jacket and came out with a semiautomatic. He pocketed it, shaking his head. He spat another curse, swiping rainwater out of his face, then stopped, head bowed.

Napoleon bent, seized his partner firmly by his upper arm. He held on for a moment, an anchor, until Illya turned his gaze up to him. Napoleon pulled the Russian to his feet.

“Come on, partner. We’ve got to get moving.”

They piled the THRUSH agents and Marcel into their sedan and locked the guns in the trunk. Napoleon pulled the car off the road and locked it up. It would have to serve as their grave — better than they deserved, he thought — until someone from UNCLE could take care of things.

The cabdriver lay on the seat, face down, one arm hanging out the open door. Marie was gazing down at him.

“That poor man.”

Napoleon said, “It’s a dangerous business.”

She glared at him. “He was a cab driver!”

“Let’s go,” Illya said. He and Napoleon lifted the cab driver and put him in the trunk. Napoleon closed it and they looked at one another. Illya shook his head. Neither of them was happy about the trail of bodies they were leaving

“I know,” Napoleon agreed. “But do you want to risk calling in? In another day we’ll be in London.”

“It was Marcel who told us communications were being monitored.”

“Mr. Waverly mentioned the possibility too,” Napoleon reminded him. He showed his partner the tranquilizer dart. “At least they aren’t out to kill us.”

“They aren’t out to kill _her_ ,” Illya said coldly.

Napoleon pocketed the dart. “Let’s get to Calais. We can worry about it there, someplace warm and dry. We’re not going to be catching any ferries ‘til morning anyway.”

Marie had already gotten in the back seat of the Renault. She sat huddled and shivering as the agents got in. Napoleon started the car, acutely aware not so much of the broken window at his side as of the reason for it — an innocent man now lying in his own god-damned trunk like a suitcase.

Napoleon cursed, yanked the car into gear and pulled back onto the highway.

~*~*~

They left the Renault on a side street in Calais and took a suite in a good-sized old hotel on the Rue des Allies, near the ferry depots. The clerk was surprisingly good-natured about being awakened from his doze at the front desk, although he looked askance at them when they requested a single suite.

They immediately removed their coats in the front room of the suite, which was warm and shabby, but wore a shadow of past elegance.

Illya locked the door. Napoleon glanced at him, then took the burden on himself. He was senior agent, and anyway he wasn’t in any state to watch his partner suffer.

“Dr. Cheval.”

She drew her head out of the bedroom. “Yes?”

“Somehow, THRUSH is tracking us.”

She scowled. “Yes, that makes sense. But how?”

“The only person who could have bugged Illya or me is Marcel, and he was never close enough. But you might have a tracking device on you, or in your clothing,” he said, too tired to be anything but blunt. Still it took her a moment to realize what he was saying. Surprisingly, when she did, she shrugged.

“So search me.” She glanced at Illya. “Either of you. Both of you. I don’t care. I don’t have anything to hide.” She held her arms out from her sides and closed her eyes.

Napoleon sighed, glanced at his partner, a question in his eyes.

To his relief, Illya nodded matter-of-factly and headed for the bedroom. “Come on.” He beckoned Marie brusquely and she followed him into the bedroom, pulling the door almost shut.

Napoleon went to the window, locked it, returned to the door and double-checked that it was locked, checked Marie’s coat himself, then had nothing else to do except sit on the couch and try not to listen to the low voices and  Marie’s laughter coming from the bedroom. It’s a good sign, she must not be bugged, he told himself, teeth clenched against the bile of distaste at the back of his throat.

A short time later Illya came out. “She’s taking a shower,” he said. “Unless she swallowed a tracer ...” He shrugged, removing his suit jacket to drape it over a chair.

“There’s not much we can do if she did. It’s not as if we can leave her behind, since she’s what we came for.” Napoleon got up, stretched, looked at Illya. “What do you think?”

Illya sighed. “Napoleon, I don’t know...”

He sounded so tired, Napoleon thought.

“I don’t know how they can be tracking us without some kind of bug, and I checked her clothes and her person—”

“Yes, I heard,” Napoleon said drily, before he could stop himself. _For Christ’s sake, get hold of yourself._ “Sorry.”

Illya shook his head, hesitated. “I think she’s done.”

Napoleon hauled himself up from the sofa. “Let’s set up a DEW line, partner. Then we can get some sleep too.”

~*~*~

Marie collapsed into sleep in the bedroom as soon as she got out of the shower. Illya and Napoleon created a network of passive alarms around the suite with various strings and curtain ties and breakable items.

Finally Napoleon nodded at the couch in the bedroom and said, “I’ll take first watch in the other room. One of us should stay with her anyway.”

Illya looked at the couch as if it were a drowsing lion. They both had reasons to dread sleep; he knew Illya’s. He didn’t want to know his own, but he did.

At last Illya shrugged and went to the couch.

~*~*~

Napoleon settled on the couch where he could see the window and both the bedroom and the front doors. It was after 2 a.m. The earliest ferry would be after six. He briefly considered resorting to the amphetamine capsules no agent was without on a mission. Then he chuckled to himself. He didn’t need it; he could count on the turmoil in his head, like people arguing in the next room, to keep him awake.

Issues of trust — of betrayal — kept bouncing off each other in his head. None of the images could even charitably be called thoughts. He was feeling. Feeling betrayed. By Marcel, by the situation, and by himself.

He expected danger from THRUSH. He didn’t expect it from within UNCLE’s ranks. Finding it in his own head ... he’d turned his back on a fact, like a gun, well aware of it but refusing to face it, and it would destroy him if he didn’t turn and deal with it.

Worse, it might destroy someone else. And that, too, would destroy him.

He felt more than heard movement behind him, every shift of air familiar even in the strange room.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked.

Illya eased himself onto the couch. “I was thinking.”

Napoleon didn’t move, although the hour and his frame of mind made proximity perilous. He felt Illya’s presence, his nearness, on his skin, _inside_ his skin, a line of fire drawing him toward his partner. He fought it, held himself still.

“I was grappling with the issue of trust,” Illya went on.

Napoleon smiled sourly. “That’s a coincidence.”

“Some level of faith in others is necessary to function in the world,” Illya said. He sounded as if he resented even that minimal requirement. “Beyond a certain point, however ... it seems any trust is destined to be betrayed.”

Napoleon, hearing the glint of pain, pushed himself to his feet, teeth gritted. In another second he would have reached for his partner, and that had to be prevented.

He went to the window and scanned the silent, darkened street, then looked into the bedroom, where Marie slept peacefully. He trusted that the alarms they’d set up would alert them, but he had to move, to let himself breathe a little.

When he went back into the sitting room, Illya had set his elbows on his knees, fingers laced in a pattern that spelled worry. Not looking up at Napoleon, he said, “You must know I was not including you in that assessment. You must know that I ... that I rely on you.” He laughed softly, and Napoleon wondered at the brittle sound.

Looking at the familiar curve of back, the strong, square hands knotted together, Napoleon felt a sound well up in his chest — a laugh, maybe, but it might have come out a sob, so he bit it back. He brushed one hand against his partner’s shoulder and moved away, quickly. If he took hold he’d never let go. _Jesus. Isn’t it enough that I’d die for him? Now I’m dying for him. I didn’t want another secret to keep from him._

“I know.”

“Is there anyone who hasn’t betrayed us lately?” Illya said, a mordant attempt at humor.

Napoleon glanced out the window again, at the rain blurring the street lamps, blurring the other buildings. That one word, ‘us,’ nearly broke his heart. He turned, watched his partner’s fingers clench and unclench.

“And yet ...” Illya laughed softly. “We are the white knights. It’s this world, these people we cannot trust, that we would die to save.”

Anger flared in Napoleon’s gut — anger at himself that he was so wrapped up in his own turmoil that he couldn’t offer his partner the comfort he was not asking for, but needed nevertheless. 

Illya dropped his forehead into his hands. “I’m so tired of it.” His next words speared Napoleon’s heart. “I need you ... I need you to be —” He laughed again. “Incorruptible. Perfect.”

Sick from his partner’s pain, Napoleon moved to the couch, laid his hands on his Illya’s taut shoulders.

“I’ll never be perfect,” he said, “but I will always be at your side.”

Illya’s shoulders relaxed under his touch. Napoleon felt himself leaning forward — and jerked his body away, in the opposite direction from his heart, a marionette mastered by fear. He moved stiffly toward the window again, cursing himself as the worst of cowards.

“You were thinking about it too,” Illya said finally. “About trust.”

“Not in the same way,” he said with some effort. He’d been so fortunate as to have never had to lie to his partner. The bond they’d built was too valuable to sully just to protect his ego. But he couldn’t admit to Illya that he had lost his faith in himself.

He knew what Illya would say: _I trust you with my life._ And Napoleon could only answer: _But I don’t. Because your life means more to me than it does to you._

He couldn’t do that. Not now, not during a mission. They both needed to believe, in each other as well as in themselves. That faith was what kept them alive, even if it was faith in something that, like the holy grail, didn’t exist.

“Napoleon...” Illya began, just as Napoleon said:

“You should try to get some sleep. We’ll need to be alert in the morning; that’ll be their last chance to grab Dr. Cheval.”

~*~*~

They trooped downstairs in the early morning and asked the desk clerk to order a taxi. He made a call and told them it would be at least 20 minutes, so they went into the hotel bar, which had a window overlooking the street, and ordered coffee.

They sat at a table and Marie jumped up again immediately. “I left my bag in the room.” She waved at them to remain where they were. “I’ll be right back. Please order me a vast quantity of coffee.”

She hurried out of the cafe, across the lobby and up the stairs.

The waiter came over and, when they asked for coffee, gave them the look of a man who knew he wouldn’t be getting a good tip. As he walked away something pricked Napoleon and he looked toward the lobby.

“What is it?” Illya asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t like having her out of sight.” He got up, gesturing for his partner to stay seated.

As he climbed the stairs he began to piece some thoughts together. He recalled how upset Marie had been when she thought she’d lost her Manurhin, despite that she was a scientist and not a field agent. He thought about Illya searching her for bugs and finding none. And he thought about her killing the unarmed THRUSH in the cottage.

Mind racing, juggling, clearing, he took the corridor at a jog, drew his gun and opened the hotel room door without knocking.

She was setting the phone receiver back in its cradle as he entered. She spun, the Manurhin already in her hand.

“So.” She lowered the revolver — and the threat — fractionally. “How did you find out?”

“Drop it or I’ll drop you,” he said.

“You wouldn’t shoot me in cold blood,” she said.

Napoleon held her gaze, his own pitiless. He spoke calmly, the weight of truth in every word. “Cold blood? You’ve betrayed my partner.”

“What of it?”

“I could sleep like a child two inches from Hell if I knew Illya was watching over me.  I’ve done it.” He saw in her suddenly wide eyes that she understood him. “If you give me a reason, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

She blanched, letting the Manurhin drop from her fingers.

“Where is the tracer?” he asked. “In the gun?”

She smiled slightly. “Very good. One of the rounds is a dummy.” She waited; if she expected praise of THRUSH’s ingenuity she was disappointed. Finally she asked, “What are you going to do?”

He moved away from the door and gestured. “After you.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“London,” he said. “Just as we planned. Move.”

She stepped over her gun and walked out into the corridor, Napoleon close behind. He heard a door open somewhere down the hall, but it was Marie’s hesitation that alerted him. _Jesus — they’re in the hotel._

He turned even as he heard the shot, slamming his back against a door as he felt the impact — not the hammerblow of a direct hit but the knifing sear of a graze along his ribcage. He spun, spotted two dark heads at the end of the passage, and fired. The two men ducked around a corner as his shot snapped flakes of plaster off the wall. No more tranquilizer darts, he thought, trying the doorknob behind him. Locked. Damn.

Marie had disappeared.

~*~*~

Marie dashed down the steps to the lobby, saw with relief that the taxi with her cohorts was parked in front of the hotel. They came into the lobby, hands inside their coats, and she met them at the head of the stairs, scanning the room. Three shots echoed down the stairwell and they drew their guns automatically.

“Solo is upstairs,” she said. “I don’t know where Illya is.”

They flanked her and turned to face the stairs. She heard two distinct shots and her men spun to the floor.

Illya stood behind the lobby desk, gun half lowered as if he thought he had been rescuing her from kidnap. The look on her face, however, revealed his mistake — and the look on his told her that.

The gun came back up. Marie smiled.

“You are as quick as ever.”

Illya shook his head as reality broke up and reassembled itself. Fortunately that happened a lot, and he was used to it. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I work for THRUSH. They wanted you two. They thought I could help.”

He steadied himself, both hands on his UNCLE Special. “You were a human being once.”

That clearly stung. “‘Galahad,’“ she sneered. “Everyone lies. Everyone lets you down. Everyone betrays you eventually.”

He heard a car screech to a stop on the street outside. “Not everyone,” he said.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand; rather, she struck at his heart. “If he hasn’t yet, he will.”

The lobby doors opened and two men, one tall and thin, the other stocky, entered, UNCLE Specials in hand.

“Claude,” Illya said, lowering his gun. “Pierre. Good to see you again.”

Napoleon plunged down the stairs, gun arm pressed hard against his side, to see the tableau in the lobby. A police car squealed to a wet stop outside the lobby doors, lights flashing.

Napoleon stopped on the bottom step, leaning against the balustrade and staring at the French UNCLE agents, men he remembered from a mission about a year ago. Illya must have put the pieces together too, and, in typical practical fashion, called for help.

Pierre grinned down at them from his considerable height. “It’s just us, so we thought we’d call for some reinforcement from the local constabulary.”

“Take her,” Napoleon said, holstering his weapon and putting his hand to his burning side. “There are two more of them upstairs. You should probably collect the bodies before the other guests start coming down for breakfast.”

Two police officers burst into the lobby as Claude and Pierre were handcuffing Marie. A lively conversation erupted among the four of them when the police saw the bodies on the floor. Napoleon descended the last few steps and joined his partner.

“You all right?”

Illya nodded. Pierre, face to face with the constable, waved a hand upward, indicating, presumably, the additional bodies that needed to be dealt with.

“What happened?” Napoleon asked.

“She said ... everyone lies.” Illya looked at his partner, holstered his gun. Some rational part of his mind told him that that was not what Napoleon had asked him. “She said that everyone betrays you eventually.”

“Do you believe that?” Napoleon asked.

Illya looked at the bodies. “She said ... you would too.” He raised his eyes to his partner — his one unbreakable reality — not even realizing, Napoloen thought, what he was asking. Napoleon held that stare, refuting the charge with the honesty of his gaze.  Illya’s eyes widened, and Napoleon knew that he’d shown more than he’d meant to. He moved away, but Illya caught his arm.

“Napoleon...”  His hand came away wet with blood. “You’re hit.”

“It’s a graze.” Napoleon lifted his arm, pulled at the bloody shirt.

“Napoleon!” Pierre called out. “Would you help me talk sense into this blockhead?”

~*~*~

The rain followed them to London. Dr. Cheval accompanied them, under the additional escort of two French UNCLE agents. In London HQ she was whisked away, having said not one additional word to Napoleon or Illya.

The agents were debriefed, and decamped shortly after noon for the grudging reward of one night’s rest in a hotel before returning to New York.

They’d barely settled into the room when Napoleon’s communicator went off. He set down the drinks he was pouring and answered.

“Solo here.”

Illya, folded up on the couch, watched.

“Mr. Solo.” It was Mr. Waverly. “There’s been a slight change in plans.”

Napoleon took a very slow, very deep breath, glanced at his partner. Hearing Illya’s soft curse did nothing to make him feel better. “Yes sir?”

“I want you back in New York first thing in the morning, but I’d like Mr. Kuryakin to stay in London and help with Dr. Cheval’s debriefing.”

Napoleon looked at his partner. Illya leaned toward the communicator.

“I doubt it will help, sir. She isn’t very happy with me.”

Mr. Waverly’s harrumph carried clearly over the communicator. “Perhaps, but you at least have some knowledge of the woman. Stay for a day or two. See if you can’t get a little more out of her.”

Napoleon wondered if he imagined the flash of anger in Illya’s eyes before the Russian said simply, “Yes sir.”

“Mr. Solo, I’ll see you here as soon as you land.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well done, by the way, both of you. I think you’ll agree, Mr. Solo, that despite your misgivings I did the right thing in sending Mr. Kuryakin along.”

Ignoring Illya’s startlement, Napoleon said, “Yes sir. Was there anything else?”

“No. I’ll expect you in my office tomorrow. Out.”

Napoleon put the pen away and picked up the glass of vodka, handed it to his partner, and collected his glass of scotch, taking a quick drink and awaiting the inevitable storm inside to match the one outside.

Illya held the vodka a moment, eyes never leaving his partner. Then he set it down, and Napoleon braced himself.

“You tried to talk Mr. Waverly out of sending me? Why?”

“I was concerned. That you would find it difficult. After Madagascar.”

Illya scowled. “It’s a wonder you trust me to watch your back with this exaggerated and insulting idea you have of my frailty.”

“No.” Napoleon sought for the words to salvage the situation. Illya angry was a challenge beyond any THRUSH foeman, and it was hard even for Napoleon to tell when Illya was getting angry. Once he arrived, it was pretty obvious. Well, obvious. Never pretty.

Illya said, “Your attempt to talk Mr. Waverly out of assigning me undermines my credibility as well as yours.”

“That’s my partner — sentimental as a concrete wall. I know that. It was a moment of weakness.”

Illya snorted. “Fortunately you don’t have many.”

A little calmer, Napoleon straightened, glanced at his partner. “Thank you for that.”

“But I think you owe me a clear answer,” Illya continued. “It is one thing to be ... protective of me in the field. Why should you feel the need to extend that into assignments?”

“Not because I have any doubts about your abilities,” Napoleon said, suddenly anxious that that was what his partner was fearing. “For God’s sake, you of all people know I trust you with my life or anything else. I told you it won’t happen again.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Well, I’m telling you now.” He set down the glass. This was no time to find courage from a bottle. “ It’s not about your frailty. If anything it’s about mine.”

Illya’s scowl deepened. “Yours?”

Napoleon sighed. “You know what I mean. You always know.” He could almost hear the succession of thoughts as Illya considered and discarded them. Somewhere in amongst the discards was the truth — could Illya possibly not have seen it?

No. He had to know. He wouldn’t say it. Did that mean it so appalled him he couldn’t get his tongue around the words?

Napoleon’s heart constricted ... dissolved, taking any remaining confidence with it. He looked away, cold, unable to risk meeting censure — contempt — in those eyes that had always been able to see right through him.

“Napoleon?”

The change in Illya’s voice prodded him to look up — fatal mistake. Or maybe just inevitable. Looking at his partner — tired, unshaven, lines around those numinous eyes — he knew whole-heartedly that he would do anything to keep him alive.

_You stupid son of a bitch. You’re in love with him._

“Have I done something?” Illya asked. “You need to tell me.” He came closer, anger drowned by concern.

Napoleon shook his head, got up, moved away.

Illya sighed softly. “Don’t do this. Whatever it is. Not now. I can’t take another...”

“Betrayal?” Napoleon supplied.

Illya shook his head, eyes falling shut as he marshalled patience. “Tell me what is wrong.” The words were a command, but the tone was a plea, a cry for help. At that, Napoleon forced himself to speak — to speak and yet say nothing.

“It’s not you.” He wanted to tell Illya to just leave. His presence wasn’t helping Napoleon’s clarity of thought. And — more — he wanted to just tell him the damned truth and let the chips fall where they might.

Then he felt his partner’s hand close on his arm, gently, turning him around. Illya looked at him, hurt, not releasing him, and his throat clenched.

“Napoleon,” he said quietly, “tell me.”

He started to pull away, but the feeling, the realization that Illya had finally reached out for him, was too precious.

“I told you.” His voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Not you. I ... I’ve lost my objectivity.” It was the truth — in the same way the sparkle was the diamond.

Illya continued to seek his eyes. “About — me?”

That startled a pained laugh out of Napoleon. “I think you could call it that.” He looked down at his partner’s hand, strong, rough-knuckled. He laid his own hand over it, his heart buzzing in his throat. He knew so well what that hand could do, how many times it had rescued an innocent, or killed an enemy. Or saved his life.

Illya knew all that too. But he had no idea what he held now.

Shaking, Napoleon threaded his fingers through his partner’s. Just as he knew Illya felt his trembling, he would have felt any resistance, any faint tightening of muscles as he raised Illya’s palm to his lips, pressed it there in silence. He felt their pulses, distinct, counterpoint — then felt them merge, disappearing into one another as he met his partner’s astounded stare.

Illya flushed, whispered, “What are you saying?”

Napoleon held Illya’s eyes for as long as he could, one heartbeat, one slow second. “Exactly what you think I’m saying. Exactly that.”  And he let go.

Illya backed away, fingers curled into fists at his sides, and Napoleon had to turn his head.  Defeated, he stared at the rain-streaked window, still feeling his partner’s hand in his, against his mouth.

Everything — his career, his future, his value, his sense of self — lay in pieces at his feet. He wasn’t going to be able to put it back together as it had been. Some of the pieces would be lost forever. _Not you. Please. Whatever I lose ... not you._

He glanced warily back at his partner. Illya stood in the middle of the room, nervous, eyes wide, wild, as if ready to bolt.

“Napoleon ...” He shook his head. “You can’t mean ...”

Napoleon had never heard Illya’s voice like this, soft with wonder, defenseless, devoid of sarcasm, of distance. He sounded ... frightened.

_“Lancelot was forbidden to touch the grail because of his sins.”_

_“But he was permitted to see it.”_

_“Was that meant as reward, or punishment?”_

Napoleon turned away again, facing the window. The rain had stopped; the grey clouds shattered, revealing a weak blue sky. “Maybe I can’t mean it. But I do. Believe me, I don’t want to. But it’s here. It’s in front of me all the time now. Sooner or later, it’s going to get in the way of a mission. If for no other reason than your own safety, you need to know that ...”

He heard the door close behind him, like a blow to his stomach. _No_. Disbelief rose in his throat, pricked his eyeballs. Jaw clenched, he blinked rapidly at the smeared rainbow beyond the glass, whispered, “That I love you.”

 

The End

 


End file.
